In His Arms

by Caraway Carter

Emails received: twelve – five from the same Starbucks by customers, three from the Starbucks break room, two from a coffeehouse in the Bronx, one from a garbage collector in Soho, and one from a small coffeehouse in Soho

  Dear coffee lover,

  We spend more and more time sipping the deep darkness. It’s what we use to get up in the morning, and what some of us use to put us to sleep. We write long emails while drinking it. We compose music, write books, create dance steps, and do homework—all while letting the hot liquid slide down our throats.

  It’s a ritual some of us cannot do without. And there is nothing wrong with that. Take your coffee with you, explore, and discover that which you never thought existed. Be exotic, like your coffee. You can be as bland as you need to be, but in your blandness, you can still achieve greatness. Anything you put your mind to, you can do it.

  So, whatever you drink or do, give it your all. Create something, imagine something, or design something. The possibilities are endless. Be that which you’ve always wanted to be.

  Creatively,

  Brandon

  brandonsloveletters@gmail.com

  Left in a cab in New York

  Emails received: six – from all over New York

  Dear passenger,

  Take this time alone in the back seat. Do not look at the driver; let him enjoy his drive. But, look into yourself and discover what you have within you. Is it vast and full of love, or small and worried all the time? Do not fret, this is a safe ride. Take the time to enjoy the trip. Maybe begin writing your own letter to someone in need, whether that need is to know they are not alone, or they are loved. I’m here to tell you that you are an amazing person, no matter what you tell yourself. You have it in you to be amazing.

  I never thought I’d be where I am, but I know that if I never let me trust myself, I’d never do anything with my life. Trust yourself and accomplish that which you have always wanted to do.

  Brandon

  brandonsloveletters@gmail.com

  7

  Anniversary Three

  Hello, reader.

  I can’t call you anything other than that. I’m not certain if you are a lover placing a lock on the bridge or a photographer taking pictures of the crazy people trying to find space on the chain-link. I can tell you that three years ago, there were not nearly as many locks as there are now, and there are so many more, that I can’t even find mine.

  So, whoever is reading this, it’s my anniversary letter. In the past year, I’ve left missives all over the city, and I even continued back home this year—left one on an airplane, another in a cab, and a third in a Starbucks in the airport. If you’ve ever read one of my other letters, or this annual one, welcome back. I still have yet to find one of my originals. This is the first year I’ve left an email address so you can tell me where or if you’ve found one of my letters.

  So, I backpacked through the South of France this past year. I took a three-month trip, where I left a few letters. I found several small towns where I’d love to open my little shop—my own boulangerie—someday. I’ll give it one more year and save the funds from my job at the restaurant.

  The countryside is so beautiful. H&B seem to love their home; well B does, as she’s there all the time. H commutes, but sometimes he works from home. B confided in me that she’s been thinking of having a fling with a guy from town; she’s still convinced H is having an affair. She told me that if she doesn’t get pregnant in the next year, she’ll seriously pursue the hunk down the street who cuts her grass.

  I just smiled and thought about poor H, and I remembered the dream I had a couple of days ago. I’d taken a room at the hotel so I’d be close to the bridge for the anniversary. After I finished off one bottle of red, opened a second, I fell asleep and dreamt that H asked for a divorce because of B’s affair and promptly asked me to marry him. In the dream I told him no, we couldn’t get married, because I could never give him kids. He told me he didn’t want kids, he wanted me. I said yes and took him in my arms. B stood on the other side of the room, her mouth hanging open, screaming, “You’ve been having an affair with my twin brother?” We turned to her and said, “No…never an affair, a fling.” We walked to the bridge and dove in the water, became fishes, and swam away.

  It was a pretty odd dream, but I don’t see them getting a divorce anytime soon. B makes up things all the time. I can’t imagine she’d have an affair, let alone with her gardener.

  I still wonder if he’s ever come to the bridge. Am I the only one showing up, pining for what I’ve lost? Maybe it was all a dream, a figment of my imagination. I’m not sure; I do know that my life has become more complete since I invested in my life and career. I don’t need a relationship; sex is far easier to get when you aren’t tied down. Besides, I’m saving myself for an ideal I don’t think exists anywhere. Even H’s brother R couldn’t live up to that ideal.

  I said earlier about going to America; this year, we all met for Thanksgiving, stuffed our bellies, and Father told us the bad news. His cancer isn’t clearing up—he says he probably has another year or two left—and he wants us to be brave and strong for him. He plans on seeking alternative treatment, but he knows it will take him sooner, rather than later.

  Father and I have kept in touch a lot more lately. I finally came out to him, officially. I sat him down and said, “Father. I’m gay.” He nodded his head, pursed his lips and said, “Yes, B we knew. I still love you and hope you find love one day.” I held him for a long time and we just hugged and cried.

  I told him I’d found someone, but they were unattainable. He asked if I was sure, because life is stronger if held together with the love of a partner. I loved him for saying “partner” instead of wife or husband. I nodded my head, smiled and said, “I’ll keep my eyes open for a strong partner, father.” He finally asked me to not be so formal and call him Dad, and I’ve done so ever since.

  So, friends, I shouldn’t have had the rest of the wine before coming here today. Let me leave an email address for you. BrandonsLoveLetters@gmail.com. It’s stupid, I know, but how can you go wrong with it? If you read this, tell me what you think; if you find one of my other letters, tell me where you found it, or something you’d like to learn from me. I’m getting more intrigued the longer I do this. Besides, I’m sad when I show up to this bridge and there isn’t a leftover letter.

  Till we meet again stranger, reader,

  Brandon

  8

  Romantic Letters in the Fourth Year

  Letter left at the top of the Eiffel Tower

  Emails received: twenty-five – from all over Paris

  Dear lovers lost,

  My nine-month relationship ended today. We tried so hard to be a couple. We did everything couples did; we moved in, we shared responsibilities, we laughed and played, had amazing sex… Mind-blowing sex.

  I don’t know why it ended, but then I think maybe we aren’t always supposed to know why things happen. Maybe he couldn’t live up to the small ideal I have in my mind. He isn’t H… He’ll never be H, and his name was only two letters away. It wasn’t that my family didn’t like him, or my friends, or anything. We just drifted apart.

  Conversations ended with us watching television or me baking. J went out to buy milk for the coffee and never came back. A few days later, he sent me an email, apologizing. He felt claustrophobic and needed to move on.

  And here I am at the top of the Eiffel Tower, looking around me at faces, happy and sad, at arms entwined and hands clasped in front of frigid bodies. We are never alone and yet always alone. I take this time to admit I’m unlucky in love. I’m destined to live alone, and I’m all right with living alone.

  Be unique and happy with yourself. Maybe you’ll find a relationship, maybe you will not, but be happy with who you have become. Smile, it feels good.

  Smiling,

  Brandon

  brandonsloveletters@gmail.com

  Letter left in an apple bin

  Emails received: ove
r twenty

  Apple eaters,

  You are an exceptional bunch of people. You take a piece of fruit and celebrate its flavor. Some of you need the sweetness of a honey, others want tart like a Granny Smith, and still others want a combination of both. Are you buying them for pies, tarts, or to snack on when you need something different?

  Look at all the ways you can savor the fruit. Make it your night’s pleasure. Create something you’ve never made before and share it with a neighbor. Take slices of apples and drizzle caramel over them for a sensual dessert.

  Feed them to your partner and lick the drippings off their chin. Anything can be tantalizing. Lay nude beside your lover and eat big ripe peaches, lick the juices that trickle down their hands.

  Take blackberries, raspberries and blueberries; pour thick, heavy cream, and take in a heavenly experience.

  Fruits can make a night of pleasure last longer and be more desirable.

  Sensually,

  Brandon

  brandonsloveletters@gmail.com

  9

  Anniversary Four

  Dear reader,

  I can’t believe it’s been four years since I stood on this bridge and tossed a key into the water. Four years and there are so many locks on this bridge. I’ve heard stories of one of the fences collapsing under the weight of them.

  I’ve been surprised by the number of emails I’ve received from the last letter. It’s not here, but I have heard from so many people from all over the world about connecting with what was going on with me. I’m not going to fill this letter with everyone I spoke with over the year, but I can tell you it was fulfilling. And I’m a lot happier for having made this outreach.

  I’m still missing H, more than I did in the beginning, because I’m remembering. I started taking French lessons, so I could understand more, and I found myself reading the book he gave me. A smile would rise when I’d read a passage I’d remembered coming from his lips.

  They got better, and B’s pregnant—about three weeks. They are so happy, and she’s been painting the room for the baby. B’s been decorating and buying clothes for a boy, but with the odds, it’ll be a girl.

  She told me that she’d gotten closer to the guy she wanted to hook up with, then she took the test, found out she was pregnant, and she said H is so happy. He sent everyone cigars in the mail, and they threw a huge party for B and the baby.

  I’m really happy for them, and I think this is the point where I should hang up my book of wishes that H will ever leave her and come searching for me. They are happy beyond any measure of happiness.

  And still I’m sitting here on this bridge, writing a letter about my life and my past. I’m commemorating a time in my life where I was free to do whatever I wanted. I’m here, also, trying to make sense of the situation.

  I’ve got several friends who have locked their love, and yet they argue all the time. Wives cheat on their spouses; they talk about how poor in bed they are. Men pick up prostitutes and complain about the service their partners give them. And yet, I can’t stop praising H and all that he does.

  I found a lover. He and I have been living together for the past six months, and this one wants to go home and meet my family, wants to be on my arm, wants to be everything for me.

  F surprises me with little trinkets of his love and devotion, and he’s a patient man, waiting for me to finish writing this letter. He stands in the middle of the bridge, camera in hand, offering to take photos of the locks and the lockers. They smile for the camera, they toss their key, and the man usually kneels down to write their names on it.

  F offers to email them the photos. He won’t charge them, unless they insist. He usually doesn’t get paid much for his work, but he takes the most beautiful pictures. We met because he’d taken a picture of me sitting on a bench writing a letter. He sepia toned it, framed it, and arranged to meet me. He sent me an email, after reading my note. I only found out the reading of the note a few weeks ago.

  Something about this arrangement frightens me a bit, but for now…it’s been an amazing six months. It was my idea for him to move in—I need to keep a better eye on him. It’s funny, because we’re going to America for the Christmas season this year; I should probably find out something before I take that trip.

  I think I’m going to buy the boulangerie next year, I’ve got a place in mind. Until that moment, I’m still waiting. I’ll ask H about it this holiday—if they make it out. I keep forgetting B is pregnant. I’ll find time to check in with H, either way.

  Someone asked me if I wish I could just break them up and steal H away. I told them in my reply email that I didn’t think that was an option. It’s never crossed my mind to break them up. What we had, though truly special and romantic, wasn’t something to build a life upon. Learning about each other, how we tick, and what we like in our lives is what does it.

  I’ve learned far more from him being my brother-in-law than I would have if we’d struck out together—if we’d broken them up for ourselves. H is a compassionate man, I noticed during that week. More than that, I’ve learned what foods he loves and what he hates—how funny it is to hear him say American words with that French accent—how he thinks that Americans hide their feelings more than Europeans, and how he feels about our politics, versus those of France.

  We’ve had huge talks about the state of the world, what it’s evolving into. I’ve also learned we’d die in a zombie apocalypse, because neither of us know how to shoot. Even B knows how to pull a trigger. We figured that she’d have to save both of us. I can’t wait to give him his gift, as I pulled his name this year.

  I think it’s funny. I started to write down everything I got him, then I thought, what if he reads this? But, I’m pretty sure I’m the only one carrying the torch for this past lock. He’s focused on family and the baby and his life. He’s moved on with my twin; he’s living the life that he told me he’d lead.

  But, I can’t stop. It’s been four years since I kissed him, since I held him in my arms, since I embraced and loved every inch of his skin. And now I’ve got F to worship. My one wisp of wisdom: hold a place in your heart for love, let it be caressed and nurtured—you deserve this.

  Always,

  Brandon

  brandonsloveletters@gmail.com

  10

  in Year Five

  Letter left in a hospital waiting room

  No email left

  Hello, you don’t know me, you’ll never know me. I’m the baby that was lost today. I’m a child who could only live long enough to make my parents smile. I lived long enough to see my uncles and aunts make googley faces and sound stupid. I lasted long enough to hear the words of my grandfather, who died just after I did. I lived long enough to see the other grands tilt their heads, tears rolling down their faces.

  No one got to hold me, but they all loved me. I lived long enough to get a name. I know I lived long enough for all of them. I don’t want you to throw away these thoughts. I want you to remember them for the children born this day and the other ones who died today, that weren’t children.

  Cry, because you need to, but share and be happy to know that I was happy to be here.

  Danielle

  Letter left on a bench in a cemetery

  No email left

  Dad, thank you for making me the amazing man I am today. Thank you to all of the dads who go that extra step and listen.

  Who take the time to know what you are doing with your life.

  Who care enough to pay attention, and who do not judge you, because you live a different life than he did.

  I lost my dad today. I will always treasure him for what he gave me. And if I ever get the chance to be a father, I will do it the way he did it, without guilt or disapproval. I will make every day a place where my child will feel safe.

  Thank you, Dad.

  Brandon

  Letter left at the bridge after three panels of locks were removed for Plexiglas

  Tons of emails

&
nbsp; Lockless lovers, I was saddened to see the removal of so many locks without notification. I can only say…be aware that your love is complete, and you are where you should be. Though I have done everything in my power to discover what was done with the locks, I haven’t seen anything about them cutting them off, only cutting out the chain-link they were attached to. It is assumed you are still connected to the chain-link.

  Let’s call you Lost Locked Lovers, as it is a more delicate thing. You were near the beginning of the bridge; I have yet to be able to find the lock that my lover and I placed just a little over five years ago. I still feel connected to him, and I do hope you are connected as well.

  A fellow locked lover,

  Brandon

  brandonsloveletters@gmail.com

  Left on the stairs in Le Mont Saint Michel

  Several emails from all over Northern France

  Visitors, I have found this to be the place where I will make my life. I stood on the street facing the little boulangerie, tears welling in my eyes. I could imagine little D running around the kitchens as I did when I was little. I imagined my dad sitting at the café with my mother, sipping cappuccinos and sharing a baguette.

  I saw myself in the kitchen, piling little cream puffs on a plate, surrounded by confections and breads and pastries, and I knew I’d found the place. I will rename it; I will sell the baguettes at the same price; I will become owner in my own fantasy. It is far from where I currently live, but I will find lodgings closer.